Page 33 of Ship Wrecked

Cyprian and Cassia, nearing despair at the onset of winter and the accompanying scarcity of their remaining food supply, would share a magical apple. A gift from Neptune, left at the very precipice of their gate to Tartarus. Pretty much exactly what Maria had suggested, although the showrunners didn’t openly acknowledge that.

Peter couldn’t believe it. A fuckingmagical appleand a bit of CGI work, and suddenly he wouldn’t have to starve or fuck up his body after all, and neither would she.

Maria had won her high-stakes gamble and made it look—easy.

But, of course, that ease was only possible because the stakes actuallyhadn’tbeen that high for her. Not in the same way they were for him. As she’d told him, she could walk away from this role or even her career and be fine. He couldn’t.

She didn’t understand that, though.

It was obvious, at least to someone who watched her as closely as he did. She still laughed and chatted with him, still made an effort to include him in group conversations and activities, but when she looked at him, some of the warmth in those lively brown eyes had cooled. Some of the growing ties of trust between them had been severed.

He’d never thought he’d miss Maria calling him a shit-boot, but he did. The Swedish obscenity hadn’t passed her lips once since the night of Ron’s meeting.

Which was ironic, since he’d never felt more like a shit-boot than that night. When he’d sat beside her during that awful meeting and seen her hands pale and shaking with chill, her lips blue around the edges, all because he’d jumped to obey Ron’s command and urged her to do the same. When he’d heard her save not only herself, but him too. When he’d left her swinging in the cold, cold breeze to preserve his own professional future, exactly as he’d told her he would.

He’d had his reasons. But still:skitstövel.

They remained friends, and he valued that. More than she probably understood. Any hints that she might feel more than friendly toward him had vanished, though.

The loss hollowed out something within him, a void he hadn’t even realized was full—for maybe the first time in his life—until it emptied once more.

Another bizarre, hilarious phrase Maria had taught him to recognize that summer:Nu har du verkligen skitit i det blå skåpet. Now you’ve really shit in the blue cupboard.

Essentially, the phrase meant:You fucked up.

He’d protected his own interests, and that wasn’t the same as fucking up.

But somehow, it still felt like he’d fucked up. Badly.

In mid-January, a stupefyingly powerful winter storm churned toward the island.

The day before it hit, the Atlantic itself seemed alive and angry, lurching and dipping in nauseating churns, whipped along by roaring winds. The towering waves smashed against the cliffs so viciously that the spray soaked anyone standing on top of those cliffs, the staggering power of each impact elemental and frightening.

Peter knew. He was there, and he was frightened.

Not for himself. For Maria.

“Action!” Ramón shouted, a severe frown creasing his weathered face.

On cue, there she went again, wandering near the edge of the cliffs with her face in her hands, blond hair tangled in wet ropes, her sobs drowned out by rain and howling gusts of wind.

Darrell, positioned next to Peter with his hood cinched tight over most of his face, was—for once—not smiling. His whisperedshitwas barely audible, and Peter had never appreciated the man more. Even Jeanine stood grimly watching, with one wet, gloved hand covering her mouth and the other clutching Darrell’s arm.

No one was happy, although Maria was probably the most sanguine of them all about the situation. Apparently she considered today’s awful filming conditions anadventure. Which would normally be charming as fuck, if only she couldn’t end updead.

He didn’t understand her reasoning. Not even a little.

Dieting? No fucking way. Taunting the Grim Reaper? No problem!

Hell, even their hotel proprietor had registered his disapproval. That morning, when the group had left for the day, Conor had asked where they were filming, in tones that implied a silentaddendum:Andwhyare you filming, you absolute plonkers? Have you lost your bloody minds?

When he’d heard about Maria’s scene, for some unknown reason he’d immediately turned to Peter. Stared at him, as if waiting for... something, with lines of worry and disapproval carved deep across his freckled forehead. Then, when Peter hadn’t responded, Conor had swiveled in place and trained his glare on Ramón and Nava instead.

To be fair, the director and line producer hadn’t wanted to keep filming either. Their requests for a delay in production had been promptly and firmly refused, however, because the foul weather would actually save the over-budget show some of its postproduction costs.

In a bit of awful serendipity, the script that week had already called for a fierce Atlantic storm to come ashore, Neptune’s punishment for Cyprian and Cassia’s unwillingness to make the exhausting trek to the cliffs during the harshest winter months. The shipwrecked Vikings had left the gate to Tartarus unattended for far too long, and the god of the sea intended to make the cost of their negligence personal and unmistakable.

The wind would destroy part of their home, and Cassia would despair. As Cyprian restlessly dozed after a sleepless, miserable night, she’d travel to the gate on her own, unwilling to risk him as well as herself, and beg for mercy. And when the storm continued unabated, she’d contemplate ending her misery for good in one leap from those unforgiving heights.

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